Sunday, October 30, 2005

Bordeaux



I am not sure whether to give a tip. Isabelle is serving me, a girl with glasses and chubby face, she collects the money with the pride of a queen. The wind blows slips of paper across the flagstones before St. André, glossy ads from magazines, unstilled yearnings, while the bell strikes, every hour, the only continuum. At the door of the cathedral a beggar woman opens her hand for money. A bike leans against the iron fence, like a loophole getaway. People taking photographs, holding their cameras with extended arms before their eyes, like strange toys. A boy with books in his hands watches the big cars parading down the adjacent street. A few prowlers, les marginaux, walk over the square, guys with dogs, scrawny girls like kids. A young maghrebine is following her guy, a few steps behind him, she wears a chain of pearls around her naked belly. A man with crutches takes the crutches away, takes his cellphone, the woman by his side talking on another. They turn to stone in the heart of the square, talking prayers into their mobiles while a chopper above their heads is circling the square. A pizza driver takes the short cut. A woman with burnt skin and sunglasses looks strained, gets deeper into her newspaper, takes another coffee. A girl with flaming red hair throws her cigarette away, the butt rolls over the flagstones. At the table next to me, a few people talk about Sinsemilia, you cannot take it more than twice, one says. It makes you imbécile.







Pigeons scrabble on the ground. Eat pigeons, Koen screams with laughter, he wants to join the game, he is a bright boy, he is studying linguistics in Maastricht, he drinks too much, waves his hands, throws his hands up into the air, dances the tarantella, the bite of the tarantula makes a man go insane. They sit in the kitchen, a bunch of males fighting for virility, yelling at each other to drown the music out. The Englishman makes dirty jokes, his young face is empty, he shakes his hips like a dancer. You know, they say, banging a Chinese girl makes you stick in her, you don't get loose. The air is filled with smoke, leaden time, patterns of words and behavior reeled off. A girl from Corea enters the kitchen, doing the dishes, preparing food. The guys hit on her: Wanna stay with us, don’t like us? She keeps silent, drops her eyes, hurries to leave the kitchen. I barely hear her voice, tu veux goûter? A mobile rings, a ring tone of despair. Koen has a girlfriend, she is calling from Belgium, cutting the relationship. He locks himself in the toilet for hours. Later, I see the Englishman walking up the hall, he moves slowly, pulling his crippled legs. It takes another rapid eye movement to wake up.



A few slouch hats are carrying drums and saxophones, playing Jazz. Ms. Illinois, the beauty queen, is writing poems. She voted for Bush, she has to justify herself, fights against the gunfire of our propaganda. She has serious, alert eyes, keeps her mouth wide open laughing, shows her white teeth. You have to be silent, she says, just absorb the sounds, the odors, the images of this town. I drop some words into the yellow postbox behind the café. I mistake the languages, mingle the words, l’incendie à Paris, les jeunes femmes raised the fire dans l’immeuble, the newspapers search for explanation. I jump through a thicket of foreign words like a messenger between front lines, for reconciliation. Darkness comes early. People are gathering around the place. In the back road the police deploy forces, taking precautions. An indistinct sound fills the air,
a chant? a siren? a murmur? A girl is sitting on the steps, drinking from a can, looking at her watch. She rises, starts to dance in the middle of the square while the slouch hats push their collecting box closer to the people, the crowd claps its hands, she moves like a supple animal, the eyes closed. I put a spell on her to freeze the moment, to freeze the gasping sound of this city, the rhythm of the streets filled with litter and hopes and passion. But she gets back to her place, looking at her watch again, waiting.

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